When I was a child in England before the war, Christmas pudding

Host: The fireplace crackled in the corner, its orange glow flickering across the walls of the old cottage. The air smelled of pine needles, burnt sugar, and something sweet and ancient — the kind of scent that carries memories rather than ingredients. On the wooden table before them sat a Christmas pudding, dark and glistening, still steaming from its long boil, a little wisp of brandy flame fading on top.

Outside, the snow fell silently on the countryside, muffling the world in a white hush. Inside, there was only warmth — the gentle clatter of cutlery, the ticking of a clock, and the slow rhythm of nostalgia.

Jack sat opposite Jeeny, his chair creaking slightly as he leaned back. His grey eyes reflected the flicker of the fire. Jeeny’s hands, delicate and sure, were busy cutting the pudding into neat slices. Between them lay two empty plates, a small jug of cream, and — just beside it — a silver sixpence.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “You know, Michael Korda once wrote that when he was a child in England before the war, the Christmas pudding always contained at least one shiny new sixpence — and whoever found it was promised good luck for the new year.”

Jack: (smirks faintly) “Luck, huh? Sounds like a sweet way to teach kids the beginnings of capitalism.”

Host: His voice was calm, wry as always, but there was something gentler behind it tonight — the sort of irony that doesn’t mock, but protects.

Jeeny: (laughing) “Oh come on, Jack. Not everything has to be political. Sometimes it’s just tradition — a bit of magic wrapped in dessert.”

Jack: “Magic, sure. But what’s the difference between luck and superstition? You toss a coin into pudding, call it fortune, and hope the universe keeps score.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the beauty of it — pretending the universe does keep score, at least once a year.”

Host: The firelight swayed across their faces. Jeeny’s eyes, deep and brown, gleamed like the sixpence itself. She took a bite of the pudding, closed her eyes, and smiled as though tasting something more than flavor — maybe time itself.

Jeeny: “You know, my grandmother used to do something similar — not with pudding, but with empanadas. She’d hide a coin in one, and whoever found it was supposed to have a year of happiness. The funny part was that she’d always ‘accidentally’ give it to my little cousin.”

Jack: (grinning) “So happiness was rigged.”

Jeeny: “No, it was chosen. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “Chosen happiness — now that’s an interesting contradiction.”

Jeeny: “Is it? Maybe happiness has always been something we choose to believe in, even when it’s artificial. Like the sixpence. It’s not about the coin. It’s about the hope hiding inside the pudding